To Tell You I Love You
by Beena-Pani
Summary: Love Actually fic. JamieAurelia. Summary inside.
1. Your Average Fool

**To Tell You I Love You** by Beena-Pani

**Disclaimer:** _Love Actually_, Jamie, Aurelia, and the basic story, really, belongs to Richard Curtis.

**Rating:** PG for mild language and just to be on the safe side.

**Pairing:** Jamie/Aurelia

**Summary:** [Love Actually] The story of Aurelia and Jamie, uninterrupted and extended to its fullest. Brought to you by a true sucker for fluffy romance and Colin Firth.

Author's Note: I've only seen the movie once, so excuse me if I get the dialogue wrong. If I don't get it wrong, excuse me for not being very creative and simply stealing someone else's writing.

This is dedicated to my mom, whom I blame for this fanfiction entirely. It was her fault she read _Bridget Jones' Diary_, developed a crush on Mark Darcy that later evolved into a crush on Mr Darcy and Colin Firth. It is her fault she let me watch _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Bridget Jones' Diary_, transferring the infectious disease that is Darcymania to me. It is the result of those crushes (for they are all the same person) and Darcymania that I saw _Love Actually_. And, to top it off, I saw it with her. So, thanks, Mom, for doing all that. As sarcastic as it may have sounded, I still love you for it.

~*~

Chapter One: Your Average Fool

Jamie 

          The wind suddenly seemed so much colder against my cheeks as I shut the door behind me. She was the woman I had loved with all my being. How many times this morning only had I made her aware of that fact. I just couldn't understand it. How could such a perfect woman be so... imperfect? Perhaps she was too good to be true. What was I saying? Of course she was.

          I promised myself I wouldn't cry. But I did. Not full-powered sobs, perhaps, but there were tears that refused to stop making their presence known. My life depended on that woman. But, naturally, I was your average fool. That's just who I am, and that's who I always will be.

          _It would make a good book_, I thought ironically and smiled wryly, a grim chuckle escaping my lips. If one decides to be a writer, one must always think of their own misfortunes as a way of making profits.

          Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and produced my notebook. If one decides to become a writer, one must always jots down things like that.

          Oh, what the hell was I talking about? This was just my way of avoiding the subject of how pathetic I now seemed.

          I was allowed to forget about that miserable thought when I realized that all of my belongings were still in the house I shared with the former love of my life.

          _Adding that to the Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list_. That could be worried about later, not while I was depressed to the point of crying in public. The Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list was getting a bit long. So, what _could_ I think of? The weather was awful, as per usual, though I didn't really care this morning. I had been in love. And, I hated to say it, but I still was. I caught her shagging my brother, for God's sake! And, for some reason, I was still as in love with her as I was this morning. I may have been a bit less happy, but I still loved her. She was doing it while I was at a wedding— a bloody _wedding_— and I still loved her! Was something wrong with my head?

          All right, the Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list was getting a tad too long now. I'd have to get more paper if I wanted to continue it, but I didn't want to think of that, so I was forced to. Mental paper isn't hard to find, so I got myself a whole box just for this list, because I had a feeling I would need it.

          All of it.

          _There is one place I _can_ go_, I thought, narrowly avoiding a subject on the list (where I couldn't go), and only avoiding it because it was a somewhat happy thought.

          I had gone there a few times over the last three years, usually after much influence from her. It seemed sort of funny at the time: she had pushed me into going there so many times, and now I was going there to get away from her. Okay, so it wasn't really funny, but, as I previously mentioned, I was feeling pretty pathetic.

          It was a nice little cottage in France that I was talking about. She had said it was romantic, as she packed our belongings without waiting for a protest. Maybe she had really loved me then; both of us had come. It wasn't like she was chasing me off so she could shag my brother.

          That was definitely on the list.

          I could stay there until Christmas. Then I'd get a real chance to write. After all, I could be alone. That was always good.

          Except at this particular moment.

          That was just so pathetic I stopped and turned around. I started walking back towards the place I had been trying to get so far away from.

          "What are you talking about?" she asked. I didn't look at her as I started packing.

          "You know what I'm talking about."

          "No, I don't. Please, Jamie, tell me what's going on..." She grabbed my hand, but I continued to look down.

          "You know." My eyes gradually wandered up to her face and I put on my best 'please-don't-make-me-say-it' face as I bit my lower lip. It seemed to work.

          "Oh."

          I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything at all. For once, I was grateful for the silence. It only lasted for a while, though, because she quickly broke it.

          "So, where are you going?"

          "You know," I said, even though she probably didn't. I had finished packing.

          As I went to turn the doorknob, walk out, and never come back, she caught me by the sleeve.

          "Jamie," she began. This time, I kept my eyes on the door. "I'm sorry." Those two words were so simple. For some reason, the way she said them, or maybe it was the words themselves that did it, I felt angry. It was the first time I had actually felt angry with her. I guessed this was a good time to start.

          I looked at her, this time without any recognisable expression.

          "So am I," I said, and it covered more than any goodbye could.

          She seemed surprised by this response. She opened and closed her mouth several times before letting go of my sleeve. Her grip had been loosening slowly the whole time. 

          I didn't realize it would be that hard for her to let go of me. Figuratively, of course. I'm sure she wouldn't be very excited about hanging onto my shirt for another few hours. Maybe it was just an act. But what would she want to do that for? She had what she wanted. _And now_, I thought. _So do I_.

          I gave her a final smile, and it wasn't the sort people did when they were truly happy. You know, the one where all you have to do is look at their eyes and you just _know_ that they're glad to see you. This was the kind where your eyes gave no effort and your mouth did all the work. It was better that way. I had to save my eyes for someone whose eyes would smile right back at me.

          And, oddly enough, that didn't take too long.


	2. Another Idiot

**Disclaimer: **_Love Actually_, Aurelia, Jamie, and the basic story, really, belong to Richard Curtis.

Author's Note: I'd like to thank all of the wonderful people who left reviews: Lis, Sammy11, Amariel, ChelseaBloom, karen1, mimibaby, JessieRose, and organized-chaos. Your reviews mean a lot to me, so thanks for going out of your way to leave them :) Oh, yes, and I believe that the woman who greets Jamie when he gets to the cottage is named Eleonore. Please, PLEASE correct me if I'm wrong.

~*~

Chapter Two: Another Idiot

_Aurelia_  

            So, someone had finally rented the cottage again. It felt like forever since I had last worked as a housekeeper there. To be truthful, it had only been a week. People usually rented it during the summer, spring and holidays, or so I figured, so the fact that someone had rented it now wasn't too surprising. I had only gotten the job this spring, but it didn't take much experience to figure that one out.

            The fact that I didn't know how to speak French never really got in the way of my work. If anything, it gave me a sense of power. I could call someone an idiot and they would never know. Apparently, the soon-to-be-called idiot had rented the cottage a few years before. Went there with his girlfriend. Didn't want to think about their reasons.

            I sighed and rolled over in my bed. It was a little past midnight, but I still couldn't fall asleep. Starting work after a two-week break was one of the hardest things in the world, or so I thought at the time. Silently, I got up, feeling the sweat on the soles of my feet stick to the floor as I placed my feet down after each step. Crossing the room, I drew back the curtains just the tiniest bit and smiled a little at the full moon I could see out the window. A misty layer of clouds veiled the moon. The closest clouds to it were steeped in its light, forming a glowing circle. It was breathtaking, a much better view than anything the cottage could offer. I wondered for a moment why this soon-to-be-called idiot didn't just look out his window right now and save his money, but then I remembered he had a girlfriend. And if she was like most girlfriends who drag their boyfriends to cottages in the French countryside, she would feel more loved being paid for than simply enjoying what is right in front of her with the man she loves. Of course, if I ever found true love, I'd settle for staying right where I was with his arms wrapped around me.

            Those semi-romantic thoughts had triggered a lot of mental smacks to the forehead. If I wasn't careful, I'd soon be longing for a boyfriend and that would be no fun. Now was not the time to dive headfirst into a pool of regret, at least not willingly.

            Smiling, I watched as the clouds slowly moved. Now, there was a huge hole in the cloud-mask right over the moon, as though the clouds had parted to emphasise it.

            With a final glance at the moon, I pulled the drapes closed as tightly as possible and turned away. Again, there was a sucking sound as I lifted my feet from the floor. _I never thought the bottoms of your feet could sweat_, I thought, now drowsy enough not to mentally quirk an eyebrow at that observation.

            I yawned and climbed into bed, slowly falling asleep more and more with each passing second.

            The next morning, I woke up feeling like I hadn't slept at all. _This is what I get for staring at the moon all night_, I scolded myself. Wearily, I got dressed and went downstairs to eat breakfast, which consisted of only an apple when I saw the time. Cursing in my head, I pulled on my shoes and stepped outside. Luckily, the woman who had rented out the cottage, Eleonore, wasn't waiting for me yet, so it looked like I had been perfectly punctual. I stopped myself in mid-yawn as her car pulled up in front of me. I smiled warmly at her, said hello, got inside, and pulled the seat belt across my stomach, snapping it into place.

            There was hardly any conversation on the drive there. She explained to me that whoever had rented the cottage this time was going to be driving me home. I nodded, smiled, and stayed silent. There wasn't much to talk about, and she knew I was used to staying quiet. It had been a long time since I felt obligated to talk to someone, since a lot of the time the people I was cleaning up after couldn't speak Portuguese. I smiled as I looked out the window, seeing how close we were. In only a few minutes, we had parked in front of the cottage, and I remembered why I loved this job. The beauty of everything around me was enough to make anyone's heart beat faster. The sun felt comforting and warm on my face as I stepped out. I heard Eleonore speaking to someone in English, but I kept my eyes on my feet as long as possible, not wanting to burst out laughing when I saw his face. From his voice, I was positive that was what would happen if I looked at him.

            But, oddly enough, I didn't. I hear him address me, my cue to raise my eyes, and prepared to face the inevitable. However, when I had finally forced myself to look at his face, I couldn't help but stare into his eyes. They were a deep, chocolate brown that seemed almost warm, and there was a hint of sadness in them. Then, if you dug deeper, there was hope, joy, and regret, all in that small space. _Beautiful,_ I found myself thinking. _Those eyes are beautiful. _I looked down to hide the light blush I felt on my cheeks, realizing how long I had been staring at him. Finally, I then became aware that he had said 'Bonjour'.

            "Bonjour," I returned. And that was where the conversation ended. Eleonore said something in English, and I heard my name mentioned among the gibberish. I smiled, amused, as he tried, once again, to make conversation. Eleonore laughed and I hid a smirk with each attempt. He may have been an idiot, but he was certainly a funny one.

            This was certainly going to be amusing.


	3. Meeting Aurelia

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Aurelia, Jamie, the story, or anything else from _Love Actually_, but maybe, if I wish hard enough, I will get it for Christmas. Probably not. I'll be lucky enough to get that Christmas song by Britney Spears out of my head.

**Thank You** to organized-chaos for your wonderful review!

Happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Yule, Eid, Diwali, and any other holiday you may be celebrating to anyone who took the time to read this far! I love you to bits for even taking a peek at this.

~*~

Chapter Three: Meeting Aurelia

_Jamie_  

            It seemed she had everyone on her side. Men were known as heart-breakers who had no feelings whatsoever, perverts, or complete dorks. How often did you hear a song about a guy whose girlfriend slept with his brother? I couldn't remember any, and it was no wonder why. Women were made out to be the victims or the people who were too smart to become victims. They were never the attackers. Men didn't get broken hearts in movies, unless they were homosexual. How on Earth was I supposed to get over her if there was no one telling me, _It's okay. It happens to the best of us. That girl was completely heartless. You'll get over it_. The answer was simply this: not easily.

            My situation looked even more depressing when I got there. "Alone again, naturally," I commented to the room, too miserable to care that I really should have been questioning my sanity.

            So it was understandable that I felt pretty suicidal when I opened that door and put on a fake smile. Eleonore was standing at the door, a smile that made me feel even more suicidal (if you can't even smile wider than someone else, what can you do?)

            "Ah," I said, trying to widen the smile. "Bonjour, Eleonore."

            "Bonjour, Monsieur Bennett," she replied, "Welcome back. And this year you bring lady friend?"

            The smile faltered for just a moment. "Oh, ah, no. There's been a change of situation." I took a deep breath. "Just me." I almost winced. The sad excuse for a smile was just a shadow of what it should have been now.

            "Am I sad or not sad?" she asked, smiling still.

            "Well, I— I think you're not surprised."

            She nodded understandingly. "And you stay here till Christmas?"

            "Yeah," I muttered. _Yep, all chance of appearing happy gone._ "Yeah."

            "Good," she smiled reassuringly. "Well," she turned around, bringing my attention to the woman standing by the door of her car. "I find you the perfect lady to clean the house. This is Aurelia."

            Aurelia looked nervous, jumping from one foot to another, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. Her hair was pulled back a bit messily, as if she had gotten dressed in a hurry, but it looked almost glamorous— more so than if she had made it perfect. Her eyes kept jumping up and down, and there was a hint of a smile in her eyes so faint I wasn't sure if I was imagining it or not.

            "Ah," I said, stepping outside and extending my hand. She walked up, her eyes locking on mine. The jumping of her eyes ceased, but for some reason that made it harder to catch the glimmer of a laugh I though I had seen before. "Uh, bonjour, Aurelia."

            "Bonjour." She bit her lip, nodding slightly.

            "Uh, je suis trés—"

            "Unfortunately she cannot speak French," said Eleonore. She gave a little laugh. "Just like you. She is Portuguese."

            Aurelia looked about uneasily between the pair of us.

            I tried to say something, honestly, I really did try, but I was shortly informed that I wasn't speaking Portuguese at all.

            "Right," I said, embarrassed. "Well, anyways, nice to meet you and, uh..." I swung my arm round to indicate the door. She nodded again, smiled, averted her eyes and walked inside.

            "Perhaps you can drive her home at the end of her work," suggested Eleonore. I shrugged.

            "Oh, absolutely, uh," I turned to Aurelia. "_Comme grande_ _ple-plesora_."

            "Which is what?" laughed Eleonore. "Turkish?"

            I felt myself sagging. This woman was out to murder my ego.

            "Well, um, yeah," I said, wondering why I was suddenly inarticulate the moment the listener couldn't understand what I was saying. Did this mean I was only a good speaker under pressure? Were all people this way, or was this my own special little defect?

            My mood hadn't improved much.

            _Still_, I thought, watching her say something in Portuguese (seemingly suffering the same illness as me), _she seems nice enough_.

            Another little voice in my head laughed.

            _Yeah, she probably thinks you're an idiot. Which, considering the circumstances, isn't too unjust an assumption_.__

_            No, she seems nice_.

            _She's rather pretty, you know_.__

_            WHAT_?!

            My shock must have shown on my face, because she immediately started saying something very fast, and had I known Portuguese, I highly doubt that I would understand a word she said.

            "Oh, no," I said, my mouth trying to make a smile but only managing a grimace. "No, nothing's wrong, you're lovely— I mean, you're wonderful— I mean, you know, you haven't done anything wrong, it's all me, I'm an idiot."

            _Why is it that when_ you _call yourself an idiot, you don't care, but whenever you think she's calling you an idiot, you get defensive_?

            _Oh, bugger off_.

 "When I said you're lovely, I didn't mean that— I mean, you _are_ lovely, but I don't want to marry you or anything. Not that I would hate to marry you, but I don't know you at all, but, I mean, you're pretty and— well, not pretty— I mean, you are pretty, just in your own strange way— not that you're strange, it's just..." She was staring at me now. I felt my face grow hot. "Well, it's not like you... like you know what I'm saying so I might as well just shut up, right?" She bit her lip again and gave me a small smile. Then, quietly, she said something in Portuguese, turned around and walked off into another room.

            _Just shut up and let her be_.

            I sighed and ran my hands through my hair, sitting down in front of my typewriter.

            "Right."

            She popped her head through the door.

            "_Sim_?"

            _Oh, great. Now she thinks you're insane. You'll have to stop talking to yourself, Jamie, or she'll ring the mental hospital_.

            "Nothing, nothing, sorry," I said, forcing a smile.

            She nodded and tilted her head to the side, looking amused.

            "Yeah," I muttered, cursing the awkward silence.

            "Bem," she said, walking out of the room again and I felt this need to understand everything she had said. My ego had taken a beating or two and I wanted to make sure that she, added to the woman I loved and my only brother, didn't think I was a useless nobody with no feelings or thoughts.

            And I certainly didn't want her to think I was a sissy, either, which was I made sure my sobs were as close to silent as possible, and that I had removed any trace of my tears before I looked at her again.

            Things were not looking too bright.

~*~

Sim?— Yes?

Bem— Okay.

I'm not 100% sure on these. I got them from an online translator, and I know for a fact those can be very inaccurate. I don't think it would screw up on something like 'yes', but if I'm wrong, please correct me.


	4. Pros and Cons

**Disclaimer**: Here's what I own in this fic: zilch. Not a characters setting, not even most of the dialogue. Heck, I don't even own the Look (The Firth fans hall know what I'm talking about). Wish I did, but I don't.

**Thank You**: to every one of those wonderful reviewers. I am in your debt, I fear, because of your reviews, which nudge me along the path to updates. I am going to repay you now by replying:

**Lis**- I love you. Seriously. To hear that I am in character is the greatest compliment to me, because I am constantly worrying I'm mutilating a character.

**Sammy 11**- Lol, glad to see someone likes the movie as much as me!

**Amariel**- Yay! There were only 3 or 4 scenes of the Jamie/Aurelia story, so I thought it was kind of overlooked by the people who saw _Love Actually_. Yes! Another Darcymaniac! I thought I was a weirdo, but now there's two of us! Yay!

**ChelseaBloom**- Wonderful? Another? My ego shall now grow so big that my head will explode.

**Karen1**- Enjoy yourself!

**Mimibaby**- Hope you didn't die of impatience! If you did, I'm deeply apologetic.

**JessieRose**- Aw, thanks! Heh heh heh.... The ego is growing...

**Organized-chaos**- Congrats! You reviewed all three chapters, and they're (your reviews) all right on top of each other. Now, _that's_ organized! Or a coincidence, your pick.

**Xanya-forever**- Three! Three Darcy/Firth fans! Yes, it is true, the Eyes must be a HUGE part of why Aurelia falls in love with him. They're the reason I fell so many fell in love with him, so it can't be very unlikely. Thanks for reviewing!

**Danielle18**- **faints** Okay, two other Firth fans is something to be celebrated, but three is a miracle. I'm treated as a freak because I showed some pics of Darcy to my friends from _The Making of Pride and Prejudice_, and now this single fic has attracted **three** Firth fans? Anyway, despite that, thanks for your review! I did send an e-mail to Fanfiction.Net, by the way.

**Shotstarf**- All right, here you go. Hopefully I'll be able to update again before long! Hope you enjoy this one!

~*~

Chapter Four: Pros and Cons

_Aurelia_   

            It was the eyes that did it. If it hadn't been for them, he would've been a complete whacko. For now, at least, he was a semi-whacko, who could go either way. I remember thinking that it was pretty dumb of me to take away from his madness because of his eyes. But then I remembered staring into them, and immediately I smiled to myself, sure that someone with those eyes could not be completely out of it. 

            _Damn him_, I thought as I checked to see how much of a mess he had made already. _He's making me go mad now, too, because of those damn eyes._

            I then made a resolution to not look at him if it was unnecessary. Anyway, he was probably seeing his _other_ girlfriend here. Why else would a man with those eyes come to cottage in the south of France, supposedly alone, until Christmas? I wouldn't be surprised if he had at least _two_ other girlfriends here who knew nothing of each other, and nothing of the girlfriend he was most definitely trying to escape by leaving England. Therefore, being spellbound by his eyes would not be a wise choice on my part. No, I was going to be one step ahead of him. At the same time, I observed how organized he had been. The mess he had made consisted of only his suitcase placed a bit carelessly on the bed. The clothes inside— I only saw this because he had already opened the bag— were folded, not perfectly, I'll admit, but still neatly enough to be considered folded. The imperfection and slight messiness of them gave me a strange feeling, but to this day I do not know what that emotion was exactly. Perhaps it was relief that he wasn't a clean freak, although I myself was a bit of one, or that his idea of folding clothes wasn't simply tossing them inside the suitcase. I had been a bit scared when I stepped inside the house, because it was then that I dragged my eyes from his and took in what he was wearing. It then came to my attention that perhaps he was not here seeing Girlfriend #2 and 3, because it was highly unlikely that he would while wearing something that, in its own language, simply stated, _I'm single and desperately need a girlfriend. I've got lovely, deep brown eyes that I'll let you gaze into if you go out with me_.

            Or, maybe, he just wanted everyone to think that so no one would suspect his true intentions in coming here.

            Yes, that must have been it. Obviously. He was a male, and, as movies never fail to tell us, that is all heterosexual males think of. Unless the male in question is a movie star, of course, in which case he is sweet, understanding, and unafraid to cry in public if it's for the sake of true love.

            I suddenly realized that I was sitting on his bed, leaning against his suitcase. My eyes widened and I let out a tiny squeak of surprise which I hoped he hadn't heard. I then jumped up and walked away from the scene of the crime. He may have been crazy, all that talking to himself and all, but I didn't want him to think I was some sort of... well, I don't know what it looked like, but it felt incriminating. I resolved to look like I was doing something in the kitchen. I had to hand it to him; it wasn't often that I didn't have to clean up something for all of the first five minutes. Usually,  I didn't need to pretend that I had been doing something I had not been doing at all, because I would be cleaning up whatever clutter he had made. 

            Entering the kitchen, I decided that my best excuse would be to make a cup of coffee. Yes, that was a good alibi. I hadn't been daydreaming in his room, because I had been in the kitchen the whole time, concocting some highly caffeinated beverage— wait a minute! Was 'caffeinated' even a word? Well, there was certainly 'decaffeinated', so it made sense that 'caffeinated' would be the opposite of it, but it didn't _sound_ like it was really a word. I had certainly never heard someone say that a drink was 'caffeinated'. Or had I?

            I heard someone behind me and whirled around, shaken out of my thoughts.

            He was standing in the doorway, looking as surprised as I felt. He started saying something apologetic, but I didn't try to listen for any words I might know or recognise. I was staring him right in the eyes, and I didn't want to look away. After what seemed like hours (but couldn't have been, because he would certainly have left if hours had passed), I looked away and took in the fact that his eyes were in a face, that face was on a head, that head was on a neck, and that neck was connected to a body, which was connected to limbs and such.

            He wasn't very tall, but not short. I was a little less than a head shorter than him, but I had been told I was tall. He leaned with a sort of graceful ease against the doorframe, trying to say something I would be able to interpret. He was not perfectly thin, just skimming the top of being chubby. His hands were trying to help along his words, but I could not tell if he was doing a good job at getting the message across, because I was coming dangerously close to examining his eyes.

            In his face there was a mix of emotions: sadness, fear, anger, a tiny bit of happiness, and that sort of hope that makes one click their tongue and shake their head, saying, 'Poor guy', the sort of hope that is so strong that you know something terrible must have happened for it to be created, and in that way it was a sort of pathetic hope, too. And then, beneath this layer of feelings, there was weariness. Anyone who looked close enough could tell that he had seen things he didn't need or even want to see, learned things he wanted to be ignorant of, and lived through days where he wished to do nothing more than crawl back into bed, pull a pillow over his head, and stop living entirely.

            And then I was staring into his eyes again. I couldn't help it. They were a dark, dark brown but they seemed to have a sort of warmth, like melted chocolate. I felt I was going to melt, just standing there, my hands grasping the counter behind me, as if for support.

            I knew I was staring too long when he cleared his throat. I blushed and looked down, then remembered why I was there in the first place. I lifted the cup and held it toward him, trying to show him I was offering it.

            "Oh, uh..." He smiled and shrugged and said something quickly and quietly. I smiled back a bit shyly and handed him the mug. He reached out to take it and, in a very polite and humble way, took care not to have his hand over mine when he took it from me. I was very grateful, because I felt sure that I would have dropped the mug otherwise.

            I smiled again and watched him walk out. Then, seeing no more work to be done, I walked to the washroom, where it was certain I could have privacy and reflected on the events that had just taken place. I put a hand on my chest and breathed deeply like someone in a movie would, then pushed my hair back from my face. It wasn't necessary, as the short front of my hair that had once been a horrifying fringe (I still wonder how certain people can look glamorous with bangs and what I did to deserve the defect of looking hideous with them) was tucked neatly behind my ears the whole time.

            Oh, what was happening to me? I was sitting in the toilet, mortified, because I had just given a man a cup of coffee. I was breathing deeply with a hand over my chest! I was pushing back hair that didn't need to be pushed back! If I wasn't careful, I was going to have a crush on this man, Jamie Bennett as he called himself. In fact, if I continued on like this I would be well on my way to falling in love with him!

            I gasped at this, and it turned into something that sounded like a sob, but no tears came to my eyes. Good God, I might as well have been in love with him already!

            _Don't be stupid_, I scolded myself. _You hardly know him. It'll pass. It's all because of those stupid eyes, but the moment he reveals himself to be an idiot, you'll get over it_.

            Oh, how I loved that little voice. I never heard it again, but it was wonderful to hear some sense in my head, even if it was for just a moment.

            I took another deep breath, and made the following list in my head:

Pros: 

-Lovely eyes.

-Seems to like me (not _that_ much, obviously).

-Can fold clothes.

-Does not make huge mess immediately.

Cons: 

-Is most definitely an idiot (whether or not a nice idiot is undecided still).

-Is possibly deceiving me with his way of dressing.

-If not deceiving me, then is not very good at picking out clothes.

-Speaks to himself (total nutcase)

            I smiled to myself. Yes, this would do for now. I was in control of the situation already. My smile widened and I strode out of the washroom feeling like I ruled the world.

            Upon hearing the rhythmic tapping of keys, I poked my head around the doorway to the room the sound was coming from. He was seated in front of the typewriter I had seen but not really noticed when I first stepped inside. My smile disappeared as I watched him, supposedly being himself because I was sure he was not aware of me. He was chewing his lower lip in thought, then a look of realization crossed his face and the slow tapping started up again as he typed out his idea. His next action confirmed my earlier assumption that he did not know he was being observed.

            He jumped slightly when he saw me, and laughed at himself. My mouth twitched into a smile, and I mumbled an apology, slowly backing out of the room. I sighed as I left the room, but stopped half-way through when I realized I had another con to add to the list:

-Types slower than me

            After that, I had no more even _remotely_ romantic thoughts for the rest of the day. And later I would think back on those unromantic thoughts, felling very sort indeed for Mr Bennett.


	5. The Drive Home

**Disclaimer**: Why do I even bother telling you?

**Thank Yous:** Thanks, hugs, nods, of approval, and loving thwacks (well, maybe not the loving thwacks) to leafsfan, xanya-forever, organized-chaos, and I h8 sclub for their wonderful reviews! Gosh, these Firth fans just keep on popping up, don't they? Lemon meringue pie and chocolate cake (unless you're a vegan, in which case I'll scrape off the meringue, use soy milk instead of milk, and egg replacer instead of eggs) to PalisDelon for the great links!

Chapter Five: The Drive Home

_Aurelia_  

            Jamie seemed to be very deep in thought at 7:00, so I just stood in the doorway, making (I believed) discreet noises. It wasn't really impolite, because, although I wanted to get his attention, he didn't notice until I started coughing, which wasn't intentional, mind you. I had gone to get a glass of water, and when I came back and started drinking it, it went down the wrong way.

            With jerky, surprised movements, he looked at me, surprised, stopped typing, got up, and ran to my side. He observed the glass in my hand and took it from me, then, looking a bit uneasy and unsure, gave me a quick pat on the back. I was trying to smother the slowly subsiding coughs at this time, and looked at him, trying to say, 'Thanks for the help' sarcastically, without actually being rude. When I had stopped coughing enough to be able to hold the glass again, he gave it back to me, less careful to avoid my fingers than when I had handed him the mug of coffee. I inhaled just a bit sharply at this, but nothing more, not like in the movies, where the glass would have fallen to the floor and shattered. I then took another sip of water and felt the tickling sensation in my throat cease, as one part of me increased my grip on the cup, frightened by the thought of it breaking.

            He was still looking a bit uneasy, eyes (_Stop looking at his eyes!_ I scolded myself.) darting from side to side a bit, as if he was trying to look in both my eyes at the same time. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and walked away. I watched his back until he was out of sight, when I occupied myself with studying the floor.

            I looked up, surprised, when I heard him clear his throat again. He was motioning for me to follow him outside. I nodded, trying to show him he didn't have to use such exaggerated gestures, that I wasn't that thick, and, with downcast eyes, was the first to get out the door. He was saying something behind me, but I didn't turn around. The colour was draining from my face as I realized I found his English babbling rather cute. He was like a little puppy dog, with those eyes and attempts at communication.

            I gave a little aggravated sigh and sort of slid into the car when he opened the door for me. I didn't even register the action as a display of kindness I was so disgusted with myself. Like a little puppy dog? I'd lost it.

            I was going to sigh again as I tugged on my seatbelt, but when I caught him looking at me out of the corner of my eye; the sigh got caught in my throat, as if nervous to approach my lips. I decided to imitate him and clear my throat to get rid of any residual sigh, smiling nervously at him.

            And there was the mumbled English again. You'd think I had picked up a word or two by now, but all I knew was what I had known for years: "Hello" and "Goodnight". Not much hope for conversation there. I might have learned a word or at least recognised one, but I don't think the guy was too articulate to begin.

            "Why are you so confusing to me?" I asked, turning my head. He looked at me, either shocked that I was speaking or trying to understand what I had said. Or maybe both. Turning back to look out the window, I added, "I've usually figured people out by now. I've done it with the language barrier. Why should you be any different?" I looked at him again; I couldn't help it. "Why, Mr Bennett? Or should I call you Jamie?"

            Oh, why did I say anything? He started up again, and this time there was no stopping him, it would seem, now that he had been encouraged by his name appearing in my monologue. It was true, I loved to study people and understand their personalities. I liked to know what made them do the things they did, how they thought, and, on those days when one cannot help being a bit of a hopeless romantic, how they imagined 'the one'.

            Jamie was singing now, and it probably related to what he was saying, but the laugh that escaped me simply couldn't be repressed. He stopped then, but I felt a bit guilty. Unsure of how to make him feel better and grateful for the silence, I didn't say or do anything. I just sat, and thought.

            I know this is a cliché, but there was a presence in the air then. At that very moment, I felt it there, and when the moment was gone, so was it. It was love. I just knew it. I didn't even attempt to convince myself that it was nothing; I didn't get too upset over it. Love was something that I'd felt since I had turned fourteen. It was nothing new, and nothing to get excited over. It was just a strong feeling of admiration and affection for someone, just a little stronger than a crush. _Yes_, I thought then. _That was immature love, the sort you felt for an attractive boy you hardly knew when you were in school; the dark, tall, handsome guy with all the friends. That's all this is_.

            That's all it was. It wasn't a new feeling, because I'd felt it quite frequently for years. It had gone away quickly, and it never became more than a momentary presence.

            Still, although I knew this, Jamie intrigued me. I held my breath and strained to hear his. I let out of breathe and looked, carefully, out of the corner of my eye to see what he was doing. He was blinking more than usual, and I thought I saw tears piling up in his eyes. My suspicions were confirmed when he pretended to brush away an eyelash, flicking a tear off his finger.

            I melted like butter. There was nothing I went more maternal about than a man crying.

            What happened next was involuntary. It was done without my permission. My hand lifted itself up and positioned itself over his. Gently, my hand squeezed his and he looked at me. My eyes, already wide, widened even more and I fought to pull my hand back. Finally, it let go; satisfied with the chaos it had caused, and was brought back to my side. I would have apologized, but I was replaying what had just happened in my head, remembering the feel of his hand.

            _No!_ I scolded myself, and desperately looked out the window, watching things whiz by. Blurs of trees and houses began looking familiar as he slowed to a stop.

            "Goodnight," I said to him, getting out of the car with a feeling I had terribly mispronounced it. "Jamie," I quickly added.

            "Goodnight, Aurelia," he said back, and I was relieved to hear his pronunciation was the same as mine.

            I turned in the opposite direction, counted to fifteen, and started running. I pulled out my key, unlocked the door, and closed it behind me faster than I ever had. Leaning against the door, as if Jamie was banging on the door, trying to get in, I felt a great relief spread over me. All my joints felt looser, and I was more relaxed, but, somehow, I felt only discontent. I had been happy with Jamie, I realized, more than a little frightened.

            Taking a few deep breaths, I thought, _Don't worry. It's only a crush_.

            I smiled suddenly. _It's only a crush_. That's all it was. And it would pass just like all crushes did. It would fade away, dissipate, vaporize, evanesce, whatever.

            _Or,_ said another voice in my head, _It could become love. It could become the love you've never felt but always heard of. Be careful. This Jamie could be the one, or he could break your heart_.

            I laughed aloud, and didn't think of that possibility for a long, long time.


	6. Insomnia

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations are not my creations, but you know that already, don'tcha?

Song references (in order):

"Stupid" by Sarah McLachlan

"Fallin'" by Alicia Keys

"'Till I Get Over You" by Michelle Branch

"What Becomes of the Brokenhearted" by the Four Tops

**Thank Yous**: To Hilary (Yay! Another Firth fan! Welcome to the club! Or cult, whichever floats your boat), sesquipedalian, (Thanks for reviewing all five chapters! That's quite an accomplishment!) organized-chaos, and xanya-forever (And thanks to both of you for sticking with the story!) for their wonderful reviews!

_Author's Note_: I just found this on my computer... I didn't even realize I hadn't posted it yet! Strange...

Chapter Six: Insomnia

_Jamie_

_ Will eyed her, no longer surprised by the rumours he had been told by his friends. They had been right. This woman was gorgeous..._ I coughed, a pathetic attempt to hide my tears from myself. Clearing my throat, I took a deep breath and began typing again.

_ His brother may have been murdered, he may have been unable to eat anything for days at the thought of it , but he couldn't tear his gaze from her._

"Idiot," I muttered, addressing myself and Will at the same time.

_ "Are you William Bouchard?" she asked, coming up to him. Will nodded, hoping she hadn't noticed his staring. She smiled sadly. "I knew your brother very well. I'm so sorry." She blinked back tears and wiped them away, smudging her mascara in the process. A strong wind blew, pressing her black dress to her side..._

"Who doesn't wear waterproof mascara to a funeral?" I rolled my eyes, but in the process a few tears rolled down my cheek. "She's the bloody murderer, you ass!" I shouted at the typewriter. With a shake of my head and the help of a tissue, I continued.

_ "I don't know if he told you this, but... we were seeing each other," she said quietly. Will took a small step back, seeing this woman completely differently..._

My fingers connected with the desk, tap, tap, tapping.

_ ... as a sister, almost. He simply couldn't stare at her like he had before now. She probably was still in love with his brother._

Silence filled the room for a moment, before I broke into sobs once again. I was annoyed with myself now, tired of always being a miserable pile of you-know-what, broken up over a woman who couldn't care less about my tears.

She probably was still in love with my brother.

She was still in love with my brother.

"For God's sakes, Will, she's going to try to kill you," I whispered, tiptoeing frighteningly close to the brink of insanity.

"New subject," I told himself. "New subject."

_ How about how stupid you would sound to Aurelia if she spoke English?_

_ Are you trying to make me suicidal?_

_ Funny, you don't hear voices when you're drunk. Too bad you gave up..._

I growled quietly to myself, walking to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Perhaps it wasn't the smartest choice, since I hadn't been able to sleep yet and it was already past midnight.

Insomnia wasn't a new thing for me. Sleep was a state of mind only attainable when I was relaxed, calm.

The mug warmed my hands as steam rose off the top, curling into the air. Quietly, I tiptoed outside into the car where I turned on the CD player, seeking some happy-go-lucky love song I wouldn't feel resentful towards.

_How stupid could I be?_

_A simpleton could see_

_That you're no good for me_

_But you're the only one I see_

After jumping a little and succeeding in getting a bit of coffee on my pants, I managed to put the mug on the dashboard and mop up the coffee with a tissue. This was not the best station, I noted, as I simultaneously sighed when I saw I was wearing dark pants.

With the push of the button, I faced yet another unsavoury lyric:

_I keep on falling in and out of love with you_

_Sometimes I—_

Nope. Falling 'out' of love was no good at the moment. Next track.

_You just bring me down_

_So I'm counting my tears 'till I get over you—_

This was the worst so far.

_Knew the sign_

_Wasn't right_

_I was stupid for a while_

_Swept away_

_By you_

_And now I feel like a fool—_

I shuddered.

_As I walk this land of broken dreams_

_I have visions of many things_

_But happiness is just an illusion_

_Filled with sadness and confusion_

_What becomes of—_

What was wrong with being happy? I pondered this as I took the CD out and read the black, legible lettering on the surface. Ah, yes. This was her CD, filled with her music. Her depressing songs. She'd never been much for requited love, had she?

Forcing a little laugh at that, I put the CD back in, but didn't turn it on. I sipped the coffee (which was now tepid) and got out of the car, returning to the typewriter.

"I need tea," I muttered as I sat down in front of the typewriter again. "And ice cream." This was surprising. I hadn't had ice cream in weeks. Not since I left (It was strange to think of it as me leaving). Sighing, I shook my head and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, remembering against my will.

.

"Come on, Jamie," she had said. "What's wrong with ice cream all of a sudden?"

"I'll get it all over my face and be suffering from a sugar high for the next week. I can't take that much sugar in such a small amount of time. And the cones have... carbs..."

She laughed, and I remembered loving it. That was what made me get the ice cream. That laugh. It had sounded to real and magical, like a bell ringing. Now, it sounded mocking, forced, fake. For all I knew, she was already seeing my brother.

"Don't worry. You could use a sugar high," she smiled. "What flavour do you want?"

I hadn't been able to hold back the smile. "I don't care, I really don't."

"Strawberry, then. It's my favourite."

.

And it was my favourite from then on, too. I hadn't really had a favourite before that. I could have counted the number of times I'd had ice cream as a kid on one hand. It just wasn't my thing, until that moment.

"It's not my thing," I murmured. Drinking the last of my tea, I put the mug in the sink. The moon shone brightly through the window and it caught my eye. Just for a second, I forgot my previous thoughts and stared, mesmerized, by the moonlit scene outside.

That's not even real moonlight, I told myself, looking away. The moon is stealing the light from the sun and making it seem it has its own light. It's theft, that's what it is. Theft...

I walked to the bedroom and sat on the foot of the bed, hoping the room's atmosphere would persuade me to become sleepy. There I sat for a few hours, along with my thoughts, until the sun started to rise. I sighed, realizing how tired I had finally become, and was quick to fall asleep.

The ice cream craving was long gone by then.


End file.
